Murder by the Book (4 page)

‘Vale is not a traitor,’ said Sawtre firmly. ‘He just likes the idea of a Common Library. As do I.’

‘It is the Devil’s work,’ declared Thomas Riborowe, who ran the Carmelites’ scriptorium. He was a skeletally thin specimen with a cadaverous pallor. ‘We should all unite against Satan’s evil designs, and vote to repeal the grace with immediate effect.’

‘You cannot really believe that!’ cried Sawtre over the resulting hubbub. ‘The only reason you are able to read the tomes you love so dearly is because your priory owns them. Surely, others deserve that right, too?’

‘And they can have it –
if
they take holy orders and become friars,’ screeched Riborowe.

‘Enough!’ roared Michael, cutting through the furious squabble that followed. ‘We did not come here to bicker about a grace that has already been passed. We came to discuss my new Junior Proctor. Are there any volunteers?’

Suddenly, the church went quiet, and Bartholomew noted with amusement that some Regents were holding their breath, afraid to move lest they attracted unwanted attention. Others stared fixedly at the floor or the ceiling,
unwilling to risk catching Michael’s eye. When Tynkell declared an end to the gathering a short while later, there was a concerted dash towards the door, still in total silence. Outside, however, the debate about the library continued in venomous brays.

‘I was not expecting a plethora of offers,’ said Michael ruefully, watching the last of the Regents jostling through the door. ‘But it is disappointing when not one colleague is prepared to help me. And if there had been a willing candidate, his first duty would have been to visit Weasenham and break the news about Adam. I confess, it is not a task I relish.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, glad it was not his responsibility.

A crafty look came into Michael’s eye. ‘It will be a terrible shock, and Weasenham’s scribes may need the services of a physician. You must come with me.’

The stationer’s premises occupied a strategic spot on the High Street, and was where scholars and scribes went to purchase the supplies they needed for their work – pens, ink, glue, parchment and vellum, books and, of course, exemplars. It stood near All Saints-in-the-Jewry, conveniently close to King’s Hall, where the University’s wealthiest academics lived, and was a grand affair with a tiled roof and several spacious rooms. Weasenham and his household lived on the upper floor, while the lower one was dedicated to business.

Bartholomew had always liked the place, with its sharp, metallic aroma of ink and the rich scent of new parchment, although he was less keen on its owner. Weasenham, a thin, rodent-faced man with long, oily hair, was an unrepentant gossip, and could always be trusted to turn any innocent incident into scurrilous rumour.

The shop was busy, despite the early hour, which explained why he was one of the richest men in the town. Two Fellows from Bene’t College were discussing whether to purchase a second copy of Gratian’s
Decretum
, watched enviously by a gaggle of scholars from Batayl Hostel who could not afford their first. A group of friars was admiring a new shipment of psalters, and students clamoured at Weasenham’s assistants for the exemplars they needed for the next stage of their studies.

The stationer himself was talking to William Walkelate, the King’s Hall architect.

‘We are doing very well,’ Walkelate was saying happily. ‘There is no reason why we should not be ready by next Thursday. Dunning will be delighted, because he has set his heart on a grand opening at Corpus Christi. I do not blame him – it is one of our greatest religious festivals, and will be an auspicious start for his foundation.’

Weasenham smiled, eyes bright with greed. ‘I shall be busier than ever once our scholars sample the many tracts stored there, and commissions for exemplars will be so numerous that I do not know how we shall cope. Thank God for Adam and his lightning pen!’

Bartholomew and Michael exchanged an uncomfortable glance.

‘We need to talk to you, Weasenham,’ said Michael, once Walkelate had collected his supplies and left the shop, beaming affably at everyone he passed. The poorer scholars smiled back, appreciative of his labours. The wealthier ones glared, although Walkelate did not seem to notice; like many academics, he was not very sensitive to atmospheres.

‘Have you heard the latest?’ whispered Weasenham, glancing around furtively in the way he always did when he was about to impart something that he should probably
have kept to himself. ‘The Common Library is unlikely to open on time. Walkelate just told me.’

Bartholomew stared at him in confusion. ‘But he just said it would. I heard him.’

‘He did, but he has his doubts – I could see them in his face.’ Weasenham winked conspiratorially. ‘And have you heard about Dunning’s youngest daughter? She is my wife’s sister as you know. Well, it transpires that she is to marry Holm, the town’s new surgeon.’

‘Perhaps we could go somewhere private,’ suggested Michael, while Bartholomew wondered how the stationer contrived to make even the most innocuous of events sound indecently salacious. ‘We have news.’

‘Certainly,’ said Weasenham, delighted. ‘I like news. Come. We shall talk in the back room.’

The ‘back room’ was a spacious chamber with large windows. There were ten desks for writing, although only seven were occupied. Two scriveners were copying theological tracts, while the remainder were preparing an exemplar comprising a selection of work by Aristotle.

‘We are short-handed this morning,’ said Weasenham, gesturing to the empty tables. ‘The London brothers are late, and so is Adam. It is unlike Adam to be tardy, because he is very keen.’

‘And the London brothers are not?’ asked Michael, more to postpone his unpleasant duty than because he really wanted to know.

Weasenham leaned forward with a spiteful leer. ‘They like to malinger.’

‘That is unfair,’ objected one of the scribes. He was a handsome man, perhaps thirty years old, with jet black hair that fell in curls around his face. ‘The brothers do sometimes arrive late, but they always work long after the rest of us have gone home.’

‘This is Bonabes, my Exemplarius,’ said Weasenham to Bartholomew and Michael. As exemplars were studied very closely by the students who hired them, it was vital that they were error-free, and to ensure a consistently high standard, the work was checked by a senior scribe; Weasenham always referred to his as the Exemplarius. ‘He is right to defend the people under his care. However—’ Here he gave Bonabes a sharp glare ‘—he should not feel compelled to do it over the just criticism of his employer.’

‘I speak the truth,’ said Bonabes firmly. ‘The Londons are loyal and conscientious workers. They are also a driving force in our experiments to produce paper.’

‘Paper?’ asked Michael curiously.

‘It is a comparatively new material made from rags,’ explained Bonabes. ‘If we can perfect its manufacture, everyone will benefit, because it will be far cheaper than parchment.’

‘I visited a paper mill in France once,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It stank, and polluted the local drinking water.’

‘Perhaps so, but we cannot allow that to interfere with progress,’ said Weasenham. He lowered his voice, eyes alight with malice. ‘Did you know that the London brothers are members of Batayl Hostel? I cannot imagine what possessed them to choose
that
disreputable foundation and—’

‘They enrolled because they are interested in alchemy and Batayl owns two books on the subject,’ interrupted Bonabes irritably. The other scribes also looked annoyed by the stationer’s disparaging remarks. ‘There is nothing unsavoury about the association.’

‘If you say so,’ sniffed Weasenham, making it clear that he would think what he liked. He turned to Michael and Bartholomew. ‘Now what did you want to tell me?’

‘I am afraid we bring bad news.’ Michael took a deep
breath to steel himself. ‘Adam is dead. The Sheriff’s men found him by the river this morning.’

There was a crash as Bonabes knocked over an inkwell, his face white with horror. Weasenham gripped a table for support, and the other scriveners clamoured their disbelief.

‘No!’ whispered Bonabes. ‘You are mistaken. Adam cannot be dead!’

The noise brought Weasenham’s wife running. He had recently remarried, and it was no surprise that he had opted for a lady who matched his wealth and social standing. Ruth Dunning, the elder of Sir Eustace’s two daughters, was a pretty woman with dark hair and arresting eyes.

‘What is the matter?’ she cried, bending down to mop up the mess Bonabes had made. ‘Help me, quickly, or this will stain.’

‘Never mind the floor,’ said Weasenham shakily. ‘Brother Michael has news.’

Michael told what little he knew, then tried to answer the distraught questions that followed. Bonabes was the most distressed, because he and Adam had started to work for Weasenham at the same time, and the older man had harboured a fatherly affection for the eager youngster. Ruth put a compassionate hand on his arm while he wept.

‘Bonabes is French,’ whispered Weasenham, to explain the Exemplarius’s unmanly display. ‘But I still think I must be dreaming. Adam! How can this be true?’

‘The Sheriff will visit you soon,’ said Michael. ‘When he comes, please tell him everything you can about Adam’s last movements. It may help him catch the killer.’

‘Adam said he would come in early today, to help finish the Aristotle,’ sobbed Bonabes. ‘I was surprised when he failed to appear, and I wish to God I had gone to look
for him. I might have been able to save …’ He could not finish.

‘It would have made no difference,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘His body was cold, and I suspect he died yesterday, not this morning.’

‘The rest of us stayed here all last night, working,’ said Ruth. ‘The demand for exemplars is very high at the moment, you see. But Adam is still recovering from his summer ague, so we sent him home when it grew dark, although he objected to being singled out for favoured treatment.’

‘Oh, no!’ breathed Bonabes, ashen-faced. ‘Please do not say that is why he died – because we sent him out at dusk, thinking to be kind.’

It was highly likely, but neither Michael nor Bartholomew wanted to add to their anguish by saying so. Michael shook his head reassuringly, while Bartholomew, never good at prevaricating, stared at his feet. When the scribes were calmer, the monk resumed his questioning.

‘None of you left?’ he asked, looking at each in turn. ‘Not even for a moment?’

‘No,’ replied Weasenham. ‘We were too busy. So, if your question aims to determine whether any of us killed him, you are barking up the wrong tree.’

‘Who did this terrible thing?’ demanded Bonabes, grief giving way to anger. ‘Adam did not have an enemy in the world – he was a polite, quiet lad. And he was like a son to me …’

‘Dick Tulyet believes smugglers might be to blame,’ replied Michael.

‘Smugglers,’ spat Weasenham. ‘I hate them! They flood the town with untaxed supplies that make mine seem expensive. And now Adam … How could they? He was just a child!’

Bartholomew and Michael left them to their mourning, and stepped into the High Street. The day was getting warmer as the sun climbed higher in the sky, and there was not a cloud in sight. Neither was cheered by the sight, though, after their grim work. Wordlessly, they started to walk to Michaelhouse, but stopped when they saw Bartholomew’s book-bearer hurrying towards them.

‘Here comes trouble,’ predicted Michael grimly. ‘I can see in his face that something awful has happened.’

Cynric had been with Bartholomew since his student days in Oxford, and the physician had lost count of the times they had saved each other’s lives. The Welshman was an experienced warrior, and also the most superstitious man in Cambridge.

‘There has been a death,’ reported Cynric tersely. ‘In Newe Inn’s garden.’

‘Newe Inn?’ asked Michael. ‘But we passed it not long ago. Are you sure?’

‘Of course,’ replied Cynric. ‘The message comes from Principal Coslaye. He says the fellow is quite dead, so there is no need to hurry, but he would appreciate you arriving before this evening, because he and his scholars want to see a mystery play in the Market Square.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, eyebrows raised. ‘Then we had better oblige.’

Besides teaching medicine and trying to serve a list of patients that was far too long for one man, Bartholomew was also the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant he was obliged to provide an official cause of death for any scholar who died, or for any person breathing his last on University property. Newe Inn fell firmly under his jurisdiction, whether the dead man transpired to be
scholar or townsman, so he turned and followed Michael back to Cholles Lane.

When they arrived, he took a moment to view Newe Inn from the outside, to assess whether the monk was right to say it was unsuitable for a library. He supposed its round-headed windows were on the narrow side, while he could attest from personal experience that stone buildings were chilly in winter – he lived in one himself, and could not recall ever being as cold as he had been in February and March. Yet these seemed minor issues compared to the advantages the place would confer when it was finished.

He was about to enter, when voices farther up the lane made him glance around – Prior Etone was leading his friars home after a lengthy post-Convocation gripe with the Dominicans. The Carmelites were a powerful force in Cambridge, with about fifty brothers and an army of laymen and servants. Most were regarding Bartholomew rather coolly.

‘You were wrong to vote for that library, Matthew,’ called Etone. ‘It is not a good idea to have one of those in our
studium generale
.’

‘Especially as it is to be housed in Newe Inn,’ added the skeletal Riborowe. ‘That building was promised to us, and you had no right to support a scheme that saw us dispossessed.’

‘I told him all that before the Convocation,’ Michael called back before Bartholomew could reply. ‘But he did not listen – thinking about urine and leeches, probably.’

At that moment, a bell chimed inside the convent to tell the friars that a light meal was available in the refectory, and most of them trooped off to enjoy it, but Prior Etone crossed the lane to continue berating Bartholomew.
He was accompanied by Riborowe and a tiny, sparrow-like man named Jorz, with a nose like a stubby beak.